From the Depths of the Art Room

The year was 1971.
The place was Fairfield, California.
My age was 15 years old.
The world was getting a little confusing.

So I bought a notebook and began to write.

I had a few rules for myself:

• write my honest and true feelings at that moment
• don't ever be embarrassed when reading back on what I wrote because the feelings were honest and true for that moment
• stream of consciousness writing (although I didn't know that term at the time)
• no dates, each new paragraph would be a new writing time (this did change after the first book. I decided to start writing dates)

When one book filled I would have the next one waiting, ready to be written in.

If I know you, if you have ever been a part of my life, chances are you are in one, or more, of my books. How does that make you feel?

(Picture purposefully blurred to prevent reading the words!)

What do I do with these books of mine?

What do I do with this record of who I used to be?

Is who I am now even vaguely similar to the the person who did all this writing?

Questions.